The Role of Anger in Conversion: When Holiness and Justice Meet

Intro: The Anger You Didn’t Expect

Anger isn’t something most people associate with conversion. Awe, repentance, relief—sure. But anger? That seems out of place. And yet for many of us, anger was the first honest emotion that surfaced when we started walking toward God.

Maybe you were angry at a Church that had wounded you.
Maybe you were angry at injustice—personal, global, systemic.
Maybe you were angry because the truth cracked something open, and everything you built to survive came tumbling down.

If any of that rings true, you’re not broken. You’re not faithless. You’re just waking up. And your anger might be one of the clearest signs that God is doing something real in you.

I’ve seen this not just in my own journey, but in others I’ve walked with—especially those coming to faith after spiritual abuse, deconstruction, or years of moral disillusionment. Anger doesn’t mean you’re rejecting God. It means you’re letting go of the things that never belonged to Him.

This post is for anyone searching terms like anger and faith, righteous anger in Catholicism, or spiritual healing after church hurt. You’re not alone in this tension—and you’re not off-track for feeling what you feel.

Why Anger Shows Up in Conversion

Conversion is a movement toward God—but it’s also a movement through everything that’s been in the way.

And when you begin to see the truth of who God is—His holiness, His justice, His mercy—it casts light on all the ways the world has been unholy, unjust, and unkind. That light reveals things. And sometimes what it reveals… hurts.

You begin to notice:

• The ways you were harmed by people who claimed to represent Christ

• The ways others are still being harmed

• The silence of churches in the face of injustice

• The gap between the Gospel you now see and the version you were taught

This is holy anger. Not because it’s perfect—but because it’s born of truth. The prophet Isaiah didn’t shrink from naming injustice (Isaiah 10:1–3). Jesus flipped tables in the Temple (Matthew 21:12–13). St. Catherine of Siena wrote boldly to Church leaders, calling out spiritual rot. Anger isn’t the enemy of holiness. It can be the beginning of it.

If you’ve ever Googled is it okay to be angry at the Church? or anger in spiritual growth, this section is for you.

Anger as a Sign of Love

Underneath most anger is love. You’re angry because you care.
You’re angry because dignity matters.
You’re angry because God matters—and He’s not being reflected in the places that bear His name.

That kind of anger is not something to push down or sanitize. It’s something to pray with.

Bring it into the light. Rage if you must. Let it burn away what’s false.
Because sometimes, anger is what happens when your heart is finally aligned with God’s own.

In spiritual direction and mentoring, I’ve had the privilege of hearing these stories—people who thought they were “too angry to be holy,” when in fact they were finally experiencing the kind of moral clarity that makes holiness possible. When rightly directed, that fire becomes a forge.

Searches like anger and spiritual maturity or Catholic anger and justice point to a deep hunger: we want to believe it’s possible to feel this way and still belong.

What to Do With Your Anger

You don’t have to resolve your anger before you belong in the Church.
You don’t have to pretend you’re peaceful to be welcomed at the altar.

But you do have to bring it to God.

Here’s how that might look:

• Pray the Psalms. Let David’s raw honesty be your model. (Psalm 13, Psalm 22, Psalm 94)

• Name your anger. Be specific. Is it toward people? Institutions? Your own silence?

• Ask God to guide it. Not to erase it—but to direct it toward restoration.

• Find safe space. Spiritual direction, trauma-aware confession, or just one friend who won’t flinch when you’re honest.

If your anger feels too sharp to pray with, know this: God already knows it. You’re not hiding anything by staying silent. But you are missing the chance to let Him join you in it.

Anger That Purifies

In the Catholic tradition, anger has long been understood as both a potential vice and a potential virtue. Righteous anger—the kind that moves us to protect the vulnerable or reject corruption—is not sinful. It’s necessary.

When stewarded well, anger becomes a fire that purifies rather than destroys.

• It helps us reject false idols.

• It makes us brave enough to say “not here, not again.”

• It reveals what we’ve tolerated that never should have been acceptable.

Conversion doesn’t just turn us toward God. It also turns us away from anything that degrades His image in us or others. And that turning can feel like grief, like fury, like fire. That doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It might mean it’s real.

St. Thomas Aquinas argued that the absence of anger in the face of injustice is actually a failure of love. Let that reframe what you’ve been taught about meekness. Holiness does not mean disengagement. Sometimes, it looks like getting loud.

Final Thought: Holiness Is Not Passivity

If you’ve ever been told that anger is unholy, remember this:

Holiness isn’t passivity.
Holiness is not smiling quietly while others are crushed.
Holiness burns—clean, steady, and full of justice.

If you’re angry in your conversion story, you’re in good company. The saints, the prophets, and Christ Himself have all carried fire.

Don’t be afraid of yours. Let it teach you what matters. Let it burn what needs to go. Let it be holy.

Want to explore your conversion story with more honesty and depth? Subscribe to Converting to Hope for weekly reflections, or visit our Ko-Fi page for guided prayer tools, journals, and conversion resources. Keywords like Catholic conversion resources and spiritual growth with trauma are part of what we speak into every week.

Why the Church Feels Slow—And Why That Might Be Okay

Subjects Covered: Catholic conversion, waiting for sacraments, OCIA experience, faith formation, Catholic patience

There’s a common ache among adult converts, especially those of us coming from high-energy Protestant communities: Catholicism can feel slow.

The parish calendar moves at a different pace than we’re used to. Discernment takes months or years. Sacraments unfold slowly, often through complex processes. It’s not unusual to feel like you’re endlessly waiting—for clarity, for paperwork, for permission, for someone to see how ready you are.

And in that waiting, it’s easy to feel forgotten.

But what if that slowness is part of the Church’s fidelity, not its flaw?

The Fast Church We Left Behind

When my husband and I began this journey, we brought with us years of experience in fast-paced ministry. We were used to momentum. We were used to altar calls that pulled you forward in a rush of emotion. We were used to communities that equated movement with faithfulness.

So it felt disorienting to sit in stillness.

We weren’t used to spiritual growth unfolding over liturgical seasons. We weren’t used to waiting months just to complete paperwork, or discerning vocation over a yearlong timeline. We had to learn not to interpret that stillness as a lack of care—but rather, as care of a different kind.

It’s not that we stopped growing. It’s that growth was happening underground.

Many of us came from faith traditions that moved fast. Worship was emotionally charged. Decisions were made quickly. You could declare yourself saved, step forward at the altar, and be baptized on the same day. The response was immediate, the energy was tangible, and the sense of spiritual movement was constant.

That rhythm shaped us. It taught us to expect transformation in real time. To expect quick answers. To equate spiritual aliveness with visible activity.

So when we land in the Catholic Church and are asked to slow down—to submit to long processes, to wait for seasons to change—it can feel like we’ve hit a wall.

Slow Isn’t the Same as Cold

If you’ve ever felt like no one sees how urgently you want to belong—you’re not imagining it. But you’re also not alone. Many converts feel that ache.

But the Church moves slowly because she takes sacred things seriously. The Catechism teaches that the sacraments are not private declarations but divine actions that configure us to Christ (CCC 1116: Sacraments of the Church). And divine things—like Eucharist, reconciliation, and confirmation—require preparation, not performance.

The Church is not being dismissive. She’s being faithful. Slow grace is not lesser grace. It’s the kind that settles deep, changes your instincts, and shapes you for the long road.

But here’s what I’ve learned: the slowness of the Church isn’t apathy. It’s reverence.

The Catholic Church doesn’t rush because what she’s offering is real. Sacraments aren’t symbolic—they’re embodied. They do something. And anything that sacred is approached with caution and care.

It may feel like people don’t understand your urgency. But what’s actually happening is that the Church is choosing formation over transaction, discernment over impulse, and depth over spectacle.

The slowness is deliberate. And sometimes, it’s a mercy.

It’s Okay to Feel Impatient

I’ll be honest—there have been moments when I’ve felt the ache of waiting. While our own OCIA team has been deeply kind and attentive, the larger systems—like the tribunal or diocesan offices—sometimes moved at a pace that felt glacial. In those quiet, uncertain stretches, I occasionally wondered if we’d slipped through the cracks.

But every time I brought that ache into prayer, I heard something quiet and unshakable: This is forming you. Not punishing. Not sidelining. Forming.

The slowness forced me to listen more. To reflect more. To dig past emotional surges and ask deeper questions about faith and trust.

The USCCB reminds us that formation is not just intellectual—it’s personal and relational (source). What feels like delay is often invitation—into deeper knowing, deeper surrender, and deeper communion with the Church herself.

Still, the struggle is real. It’s okay to feel frustrated by the pace. It’s okay to feel restless. That doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong.

There’s a sacred tension between the fire in your heart and the pace of the institutional Church. Hold that tension gently.

You’re not alone. Many converts walk this same path—eager, uncertain, wondering if they’ll ever feel fully caught up.

But over time, that slowness becomes something else. It becomes rhythm. It becomes rootedness. It becomes space to breathe.

Catholic Devotional Tools for Trusting the Wait

Sometimes what we need most in the waiting is a physical reminder to pause, breathe, and trust. That’s where sacred objects come in—not as magical solutions, but as gentle anchors.

I keep a Tiny Saints St. Monica Keychain on my bag. It’s a cheerful little reminder that patient, faithful waiting can be powerful—because St. Monica waited 17 years for her son’s conversion. And her persistence bore fruit.

On my desk is a small Saint Elizabeth (Mother of John the Baptist) figurine. She reminds me that joy sometimes arrives late—and that unexpected hope is holy, too.

If you’re navigating a season where grace feels slow, surrounding yourself with reminders of saints who understood waiting can be quietly transformative.

Final Thought: Embracing the Slow Work of God

If you’re in this in-between place, I want you to hear this from someone walking it with you: You are not behind. You are not forgotten. And you are not disqualified because the calendar hasn’t caught up to your heart.

You are becoming Catholic in the marrow. You are participating in the Church’s slow grace. And that counts.

If you need a place to feel seen in the meantime, we’ve built Converting to Hope for you—for all of us—who are finding holiness in the hesitation. We are your companions in the waiting, not because we’ve finished it, but because we’ve chosen to stay.

Take heart. The slow Church sees you. And so does Christ.

You may feel stuck, but you’re still becoming.

God’s timeline is not dictated by parish schedules. Your growth is not stalled because someone forgot to call. Every moment of waiting can still be infused with grace.

And maybe, just maybe, the slow Church is exactly what our fast hearts need—to breathe, to heal, and to deepen our faith through real Catholic formation.

If you’ve found comfort or companionship in this reflection, consider supporting our mission or exploring our other resources at ko-fi.com/convertingtohope. Your presence helps us continue building a community where waiting is honored, and faith is formed slowly, together.

Peace in Delays: When You’re Still Waiting on Your Annulment

Everyone else is being received into the Church next week. We’re still waiting.

My husband and I have been in OCIA for months. We’ve walked this journey with deep commitment and real anticipation. And now, as others prepare for sacraments, we’ve been asked to wait—not because our faith isn’t strong, but because our annulment paperwork is still in process.

If you're in a similar place, I want to share what we're learning—and how this waiting can still be holy.

You Belong Right Now

Being asked to wait doesn’t mean you’re less ready. It doesn’t mean you’re not faithful enough. It doesn’t mean you’ve missed your moment.

It means the Church is slow. And sometimes, slow is sacred.

The annulment process is one of the hardest parts of entering the Catholic Church as an adult. It’s slow, deeply personal, and often requires you to revisit pain you’ve already worked through. When you finally submit the paperwork, you want it to be done. You want to move forward.

But sometimes God asks us to wait even after we've said yes.

This Delay Is Not Rejection

You are not spiritually sidelined. You are not in limbo. You are not being punished.

This delay is not about your worth. It’s not about shame. It’s not about being seen as less-than. It is simply the Church’s legal process doing what it must.

And even within that process, God is working.

Let the Longing Become Holy

My husband and I have been walking this road together. When we joined OCIA, we knew we’d have to wait for our annulments, but we didn’t realize how it would feel—watching others move forward while we stood still.

The first time someone asked if we were getting confirmed with the group, I smiled and said, “Not yet.” But inside, it stung. Because we’ve shown up for everything. We’ve prayed, studied, committed. We believe this is home. And still, we wait.

There have been moments where I felt angry—not at God, but at the process. It felt like a disconnect between what we knew in our hearts and what the paperwork allowed. It felt like love and obedience weren't enough. And it’s hard to sit with that tension.

But I had to reframe it.

Waiting doesn’t mean denial. It means preparation. It means our wedding vows, our shared faith, our family’s journey—none of that was unseen. It’s being folded into something larger than we can yet name.

The ache hasn’t disappeared. But it’s become sacred. And when the day comes that we kneel side by side and receive Him fully, it won’t be a patch. It will be fulfillment.

Because I know what it costs to get there.

Your Yes Still Matters

You are not in spiritual pause. You are in preparation.

Every day you keep showing up—at Mass, in prayer, in community—you are living out your yes. Every time you wrestle with doubt but choose to stay, you are echoing Mary’s fiat. And God sees it.

You are not forgotten. You are not on the outside. You are walking the long road, and it is holy.

What the Church Actually Teaches About Annulments

It’s easy to feel like the annulment process is some kind of test, or worse—a judgment on your past. But the Catechism of the Catholic Church reminds us that marriage is a sacrament, and as such, it must be entered into freely, fully, faithfully, and fruitfully (CCC 1625–1632: Catechism of the Catholic Church - The Celebration of Matrimony). An annulment isn’t a declaration that your past relationship was meaningless. It’s an acknowledgment that something essential was missing when that marriage began.

The United States Conference of Catholic Bishops (USCCB) affirms that annulments exist to uphold the dignity of the sacrament—not to punish people. Their FAQ on annulments clarifies that a declaration of nullity is not about erasing a past but about understanding it in light of Church teaching.

And while it’s hard to wait, the Code of Canon Law (can. 1066–1067: Code of Canon Law - Title VII: Marriage) outlines the Church’s responsibility to investigate a person’s freedom and readiness for sacramental marriage. This isn’t bureaucracy for its own sake—it’s the Church taking marriage seriously, the way God does.

These teachings don’t erase the ache. But they remind us that the ache itself can be part of a holy journey.

Books to Deepen Your Journey

Our One Great Act of Fidelity: Waiting for Christ in the Eucharist by Fr. Ronald Rolheiser beautifully explores the sacredness of waiting and presence, particularly in relationship to the Eucharist. If you’re struggling with feeling left behind or unsure how to hold the tension of delay, this book offers deep spiritual insight and comfort.

Annulments & the Catholic Church: Straight Answers to Tough Questions by Dr. Edward Peters is a must-read for anyone confused or overwhelmed by the annulment process. It gives honest, compassionate answers and helps you feel less alone in the waiting.

Every Step Has Value

If you're still waiting, know this: the waiting isn't wasted. Every Mass you attend without receiving, every time you kneel and pray with longing in your heart, every time you say yes to the journey even when it aches—that matters. It is not filler. It is formation.

In this season of delay, I’ve come to believe that waiting is not the absence of grace, but one of the ways grace enters. Slower, quieter—but no less real.

There is value in the patience you’re learning, the humility you’re practicing, the tenderness you’re holding for others who don’t know how hard this part is. There is value in resisting the urge to disappear. There is value in staying connected, even when it feels like everyone else has moved ahead.

You are not behind. You are being deepened.

Final Thought: Let This Be Yours

When your annulment is granted and you are received into the Church, it will not be a consolation prize. It will not be a makeup moment. It will be your own sacred beginning.

And maybe—just maybe—it will be even more beautiful because it wasn’t rushed.

You are loved. You are seen. You are on your way.

For more stories of conversion and Catholic life, visit Converting to Hope

The Spiritual Discipline of Being Seen: Letting Others Know You

 

Some disciplines are visible—kneeling in prayer, fasting, receiving the Eucharist. Others are quieter, hidden, unfolding in the invisible chambers of the soul. This is one of those: the call to let yourself be seen.

Not just seen as in “noticed.” Seen as in known. As in vulnerable. As in letting your story, your wounds, your longings, your needs show up in the light where love can find them.

And for many of us—especially those who’ve been hurt, overlooked, or burned by spiritual communities—that might be the hardest discipline of all.

Why Being Seen Matters

God made us in His image—not as islands, but as people created for communion. The Catechism tells us that “man is by nature and vocation a religious being. Coming from God, going toward God, man lives a fully human life only if he freely lives by his bond with God” (CCC 44).

But part of that bond with God is reflected in our relationships with others. That’s not just a feel-good suggestion—it’s theological. The Body of Christ isn’t a metaphor. It’s the truth of how God chooses to work in the world.

When we hide out of fear or shame, we begin to wither in the dark. When we let ourselves be known—even in small ways—we begin to heal.

“Confess your sins to one another, and pray for one another, that you may be healed” (James 5:16).

What Being Seen Actually Looks Like

Being seen doesn’t mean dumping your whole life story on someone the second you meet. It doesn’t mean confessing to people who haven’t earned your trust. It’s a process—and it’s holy.

• Telling a friend you're struggling instead of pretending you're fine

• Admitting that you don’t know what you believe, but you want to

• Letting your priest, pastor, or mentor know the real question you’re carrying

• Opening your heart in spiritual direction—even if it shakes as you do it

• Naming the wound. Or the hope. Or the ache. Out loud.

It’s not about performance. It’s about presence.

Why It Feels So Hard

For many of us, visibility has been dangerous. We’ve been judged for asking too much, feeling too deeply, or needing more than someone was willing to give.

Some of us have experienced spiritual trauma—times when our vulnerability was weaponized, or our honest questions were met with shame. So we learned to stay hidden, even from people who love us.

But here’s the deeper truth: when Christ calls Lazarus out of the tomb, He doesn’t just raise him from the dead. He calls the community to unbind him (John 11:44). That’s how resurrection happens—in the presence of others, with help.

And yes—it might go badly. You might try to open up and get shut down. You might show your heart and meet silence. But that’s not the end of the story. Because the act of being seen isn’t really about trusting people. It’s about trusting God.

When you choose to step out of hiding, you’re not saying, “I believe everyone will handle me well.” You’re saying, “Even if they don’t—God will.”

Faith isn’t the absence of risk. It’s the decision to move anyway because grace will catch you if things fall apart. That’s what Peter trusted when he stepped out of the boat (Matthew 14:29). And even when he started to sink, Jesus didn’t scold him for trying. He reached out and caught him.

Letting yourself be seen might feel like stepping onto water. But Christ is already standing there. And grace is already moving toward you.

Making Being Seen a Spiritual Practice

Like any discipline, this one grows over time. You don’t have to start with your biggest fear or deepest sorrow. Start with truth in small doses:

• Pray honestly: “Lord, I want to be known. Help me find the right people.”

• Share one real thing with someone safe this week

• Receive love without arguing with it

• Let someone stay when you're tempted to pull away

This isn’t about being emotionally naked with everyone. It’s about choosing not to hide from God, from the people He sends, and from the parts of yourself still waiting for light.

A Final Word

Being seen is scary—but it’s also sacred. It’s the practice of saying, “Here I am, Lord,” and letting that echo into your relationships.

You are not too much. You are not too late. You are not alone.

Letting yourself be seen won’t solve everything. But it might start to heal something.

And in that healing, the Body of Christ grows stronger.

“Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it” (1 Corinthians 12:27).

The Quiet Conversion: When God Changes You Without a Flash of Light

 

Not all conversions come with thunderclaps. Some don’t even come with words.

For many of us, the call to God wasn’t a dramatic moment. It didn’t shake the ground or split the sky. There was no road to Damascus. There was just a slow turning—a pull, gentle but persistent. And over time, without fully realizing it, we began to live differently. Think differently. Love differently.

That, too, is conversion. And it’s holy.

Grace Works Quietly

The Catechism of the Catholic Church reminds us that “conversion is first of all a work of the grace of God who makes our hearts return to him” (CCC 1432). But grace isn’t always loud. It doesn’t always knock the wind out of us or demand immediate surrender.

Sometimes grace works like water wearing down stone. It enters slowly, seeping into the dry places, softening what once seemed immovable. You don’t notice it right away. You just start craving prayer. Or truth. Or the nearness of God, even if you can’t yet name Him.

Jesus often worked this way. In the Gospel of Luke, we meet Cleopas and his companion walking the road to Emmaus. They are heartbroken, confused, and grieving. Christ walks with them, unrecognized, patiently unfolding Scripture. He doesn’t reveal Himself until they’re ready—until they invite Him in (Luke 24:13–35).

That’s the quiet way. No spectacle. Just presence, and transformation that dawns like morning light.

Signs You’re Already in the Middle of a Quiet Conversion

If you’ve ever wondered, “Is God doing something in me?”—He probably is. Here are some signs of a slow, deep work:

• You feel drawn to revisit faith—even if you left it long ago

• You start asking deeper questions about suffering, meaning, and love

• Your desire for peace outweighs your craving for control

• You notice stirrings of repentance or tenderness that weren’t there before

• Church, Scripture, or the Sacraments start pulling at you, gently but persistently

You’re not imagining it. That’s the Holy Spirit.

Quiet Conversion Still Requires Response

Grace is a gift—but it still invites participation. Conversion, even in its gentlest form, asks us to turn. To allow our hearts to be re-formed. That might mean:

• Confessing things we’ve kept hidden—even from ourselves

• Coming to Mass, even if we’re unsure what we believe yet

• Beginning to pray—awkwardly, imperfectly, honestly

• Asking for help. From a priest. A friend. A saint. Christ Himself.

No one needs to witness it for it to be real. But when you choose to say yes to God, even quietly, the heavens rejoice (Luke 15:7).

When Conversion Feels Incomplete

It’s okay to still wrestle. Conversion is not a finish line. It’s a lifelong process of becoming—of learning to love as God loves.

The Catechism says that interior conversion “urges expression in visible signs” (CCC 1430). That means it will begin to shape how we live, even if our beliefs still feel half-formed. Don’t wait to be perfect before you start. God meets you in the middle of the story.

Let It Be Quiet—and Let It Be Holy

If you’ve never had a dramatic testimony, you’re not a lesser Christian. You are a beloved one. The Church doesn’t need more spectacle. It needs more people who are quietly, daily turning toward the light.

Your story matters—even if it starts with a whisper.

God knows how to speak your language. And if He’s calling you gently, you don’t need to shout back. A quiet yes is still a yes.

“Lord, I am not worthy… but only say the word, and my soul shall be healed.”

The Face of God Series: The Face of God in Isaiah Chapter 10

The Face of God in Isaiah 10: Justice That Won’t Be Mocked

If Isaiah 1 revealed the tenderness of a God who grieves over rebellion and calls His children home, Isaiah 10 asks us to face something harder: the God who confronts injustice with fire in His eyes. This is where many modern readers pull back. The language is fierce. The judgment is real. But if we are willing to walk through this chapter slowly, reverently, we will find not a cruel God, but a holy one. One who defends the vulnerable. One who dismantles pride. One who will not be mocked by empire or exploitation. And yet—even here—we glimpse mercy.

Isaiah 10 is not just about wrath. It is about what love looks like when it refuses to be complicit in harm. This is justice in its rawest, most redemptive form.

Verses 1–4: God Hates Corrupt Power

“Woe to those who enact unjust statutes… robbing the poor of judgment and making widows their prey.”

God’s fury is never random. It is targeted, deliberate, and utterly just. In these opening verses, we see a God who has seen enough—who will no longer tolerate laws that crush the weak, courtrooms that silence the poor, and systems that prey on those already burdened by grief.

This is not cold judgment. This is covenant-level heartbreak. God isn’t watching from a distance—He is stepping in. And in His justice, He is exposing what has been hidden under polite legalism and sanctioned abuse. To those who mistake His patience for indifference, this is the reckoning.

God’s mercy never asks us to ignore injustice. And His justice never forgets mercy. But make no mistake—He will not bless what He calls evil. Not in Israel. Not in our own time. Not ever.

Verses 5–19: God Uses and Then Judges Empire

“Ah, Assyria! The rod of my anger…”

Now we face a tension at the very heart of Scripture: God uses Assyria to discipline His people, yet also declares that Assyria itself will fall. Is God contradicting Himself?

No. He is showing us something deeper: that His sovereignty is not limited by human corruption. Assyria is arrogant, violent, and self-assured. They do not act out of righteousness—but God can still bend their actions to His purposes. This does not excuse them. It reveals the complexity of divine providence.

God does not need clean instruments to enact His will. He uses what is available—then holds it accountable. This is not moral confusion. This is moral clarity in a fallen world.

Assyria becomes a warning to all who build power on the backs of others. Their rise is temporary. Their glory is brittle. God alone remains.

Verses 20–23: A Remnant Will Return

“On that day, the remnant of Israel… shall lean on the LORD, the Holy One of Israel, in truth.”

Here, the smoke begins to clear. Judgment does not mean abandonment. Even in devastation, God is preserving a people who will come back—not just in body, but in heart.

This is not a strategy for survival. It’s a promise of renewal. The remnant is not just what’s left—it’s what has been refined. This is the tender paradox of divine judgment: it removes what poisons so that what is pure may grow.

In our own lives, this passage holds a lifeline. When the structures we trust fall apart, when God seems to allow what wounds us, the question is not whether He is good. The question is: will we lean into Him in truth? Will we trust that what survives the fire is worth keeping?

Verses 24–27: Do Not Fear the Enemy

“My people, who dwell in Zion, do not be afraid of Assyria…”

Even as Assyria looms, God speaks peace. Not because the threat isn’t real—but because it isn’t final.

God’s justice is fierce. But His compassion is never far behind. In these verses, He reminds His people: I am not finished with you. The yoke will break. The oppressor will fall. Your fear does not get the last word.

This is not cheap reassurance. This is covenantal promise. God is not minimizing their pain—He is lifting their chin. And He does the same for us.

Final Reflection: The God Who Confronts and Keeps

Isaiah 10 is a chapter many would rather skip. But to skip it is to miss one of the most vital truths of Scripture: that God's justice is not opposed to His love. It is His love, expressed toward a wounded world.

Here we meet a God who says to empire, "You will not have the last word." A God who says to the faithful remnant, "I see you, and I will bring you home." A God who confronts evil, not to crush hope, but to clear the way for healing.

This is the God we worship. Not fragile. Not distant. But present, powerful, and unwaveringly committed to both truth and tenderness.

Which part of Isaiah 10 helps you wrestle more honestly with the justice of God? Where do you need to hear that even judgment holds mercy?

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When The Face of God in Isaiah series is complete, you’ll be able to purchase a full print or digital copy in our store. In the meantime, I recommend the Ignatius Press Catholic Study Bible for deeper engagement with scripture. It’s the one I turn to most often as I write these reflections.

How the Saints Handled Doubt (and What It Means for You)

 

Saints weren’t immune to doubt. They just didn’t let it have the last word.

When you think of a saint, it’s easy to imagine unwavering certainty: pristine faith, perfect trust, no questions. But the real stories are far more human—and far more encouraging.

From dark nights to intellectual struggles, many of the saints wrestled with doubt. And not just once. Their paths were winding. Their trust was hard-won. And yet they stayed. They kept praying. They kept walking.

This post isn’t about glorifying struggle for its own sake. It’s about showing how real faith includes real questions—and how doubt can become a teacher, not just a tormentor.

Saint Case Study #1: Mother Teresa

Her doubt: For nearly 50 years, she experienced what she called a "darkness" in her prayer life—a sense that God was absent, even as she served Him with her whole being.

What she did: She kept going. She remained faithful to prayer, service, and the sacraments. She didn't deny the silence—she offered it.

What we can learn:

• Silence doesn’t equal abandonment.

• Your faithfulness matters even when your feelings vanish.

• God's presence is not always emotional—it is often sacrificial.

Try this: On days when God feels distant, light a candle and say aloud, “I will still show up.”

Saint Case Study #2: Saint John Henry Newman

His doubt: As an Anglican priest deeply drawn to Catholicism, Newman faced intense internal conflict. His conversion was slow, full of intellectual and spiritual tension.

What he did: He read deeply, prayed steadily, and allowed the tension to guide him into greater clarity. He didn’t rush his decision.

What we can learn:

• Doubt can be a sign you’re thinking deeply, not falling apart.

• Slow discernment is holy.

• Faith can grow through questions, not in spite of them.

Try this: Journal the questions that won’t leave you alone—not to solve them immediately, but to notice where they’re pointing you.

Saint Case Study #3: Saint Thérèse of Lisieux

Her doubt: Toward the end of her life, Thérèse experienced a crisis of faith. She doubted heaven, God’s love, and the very promises she had built her life on.

What she did: She clung to trust, even when her feelings contradicted it. She described walking in darkness, but holding God’s hand anyway.

What we can learn:

• Trust isn’t the absence of fear. It’s choosing love anyway.

• When your head is full of questions, your heart can still choose to stay.

• God receives even the smallest, most fragile acts of trust.

Try this: When doubts come, whisper, “Jesus, I trust in You”—not because you feel it, but because you choose it.

Saint Case Study #4: Saint Thomas the Apostle

His doubt: He missed the Resurrection appearance and refused to believe without seeing Jesus himself. His nickname—Doubting Thomas—has stuck for centuries.

What he did: He brought his doubt directly to Christ. He didn’t fake belief—he asked for proof. And Jesus met him there.

What we can learn:

• Jesus doesn’t shame honest doubt.

• Bringing your doubt to God is an act of faith.

• You don’t have to pretend.

Try this: In prayer, speak plainly. “I don’t understand. I’m scared. Help my unbelief.” That’s not a failure. That’s how trust grows.

Final Thought: Doubt Isn’t the Enemy. Despair Is.

Doubt can deepen your faith when it drives you to ask, seek, and wrestle with God. The saints show us that fidelity isn’t about perfect certainty. It’s about continuing the conversation.

So if you're walking with questions right now, you're not disqualified. You're walking a path many holy feet have walked before you.

Want a simple tool for navigating seasons of doubt and clarity? Download our Lectio Divina Journal Template in the Ko-Fi store to pray with scripture and track where God is moving—even in the questions.